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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Thursday, 1 March 2012

Voice of the Beehive

A single self cannot make conscious thought.
It’s the hive mind that gives awareness wrought
With dialogue.  In dreams the parts at play
Divide.  Illusions that informed the day
With sense of one are lifted in that drift
Of sleep and glimpses (half remembered) gift
An image of the swarm.  A buzzing sign
Transmitters and receivers both design
Where chattering must filter through; One wire
Wherein the selves’ shared circuit mixed desire
Is unified.  This means persistence wins.
The schizophrenic way it all begins
Is hidden in a voice. Where this breaks down
The absence lets us really go to town
Like bees.
Seizing more than one singly sees.
From opposites expressed confusions rain
Ant noises on the disconnected brain,
Yet still push to pull ourselves together.
Collect thoughts.  A giant net to tether
Butterflies which fan a flickering flame
(Those extra moves that play a different game
Than that recorded).  And liquidity
Paints waking wholes in rainbowed quiddity.

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